


Trevelyan Drabbles

by RittaPokie



Series: Tales From the Dragon Age [16]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 06:42:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13518663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RittaPokie/pseuds/RittaPokie
Summary: It's so hard to separate all those Trevelyan siblings that Keagan *cough* I *cough* made, so here they all are in one work.





	1. Faithful Family And Sinner Son

Creaking wooden doors slung ajar, wind howling through the snow dappled courtyard below. The thick scent of fermented grapes blows off his tongue with his breath.

_I’m too different._

There’s a spinning in his head that will not stop, will never stop. It has always been there. Even when he was a child, it was there. Something malicious and ever growing, thriving. For a while he thought it might be magic, something with which to wield necrotic flesh and sun bleached bones. That, at least, would’ve been an end. Magic never came, and never has he been released from the tides of his conscience.

_Maker, help me._

Tears prickling, cold, almost ice in the bite of the wind. The doors rattle in their frames, but it is no god, only the wind. There is no Maker, only wind and cold and pain. Oh, the unrelenting pain. His hands clutch and fingernails scratch against stone. A low wall, a protector from a long, long fall to the whitened garden below.

_It’s wrong, everything is always wrong._

If only the roses below would bloom, if only the wind would stop, if only the sun were shining. His heart aches for nothing at all, or maybe for his own life. Why, though? It has already ended, as far is aware. It never began, he never had one. There never was one for anyone to give him.

_I don’t want any of it._

Serve the Maker. Serve the Chantry. Serve the Order. Drink the potions. Embrace this madness, as it is meant for you. It has always been meant for you. There is no other path for you. There is only this. There is only the Maker. He, in all His glory. Speak only the word.

_Deliver me from this._

He does not know who he speaks to, for there is no Maker. Not to him, not for him. There is no unseen hand to grasp his shoulder, pull him from this ledge. He stares down into the wilted, dried bushes in which he had played as a child. Husks of their spring and summer selves. Only death and bleakness are left. He sympathizes with them.

_I’ve only been given two choices._

He hoists himself up onto the wall, wobbles. The wine made him too heavy and too light at the same time. All he weighs is in his feet and there is nothing in his head. He can hardly see for the feathering of gold about his eyes. Golden hair and golden soul. “Our boy will serve the Maker. He will speak the chant and protect us all.” This is all he was told to be his whole life.

_It’s either this, or the Order._

His breath is gone and he does not know if it was taken by the wind or sadness or excitement. For a moment, here, he feels weightless. He could fly, if he wanted. He could have wings.

_The only freedom I’m allowed._

For a moment, he does fly. He soars, but it is a lie. The ground meets him cracking and squelching. He hears, but he is not afraid. His nerves spark and end, there is nothing left of him. He vanishes from the world, altogether. He sees only darkness, hears only silence, feels nothing.

_Finally._

There is singing, a noise detached from his mind, but inside it as well. His eyes are too light to stay closed. They open to Spring. Wildflowers and a warm breeze.

_Is this heaven? Have I been wrong?_

“Go home, go home, go home.” They sing, more than one voice, but maybe not more than one entity.

_Why should I?_

“Go home, go home, go home. It is not time, it is not time, it is not time.”

_I will be a slave to them again! I don’t want that! I never asked for any of it!_

“Go home, go home, go home. They will need you, they will need you, they will need you.”

_There are more heirs. They never needed me. I’m an extra. Expendable. Something to be stored in the Chantry until a use is found._

“Go home, go home, go home. They will need you, they will need you, they will need you.”

_Who the hell are you?!_

He hears only silence, but around him the world changes. Darkness stretches out before him, ash and charred soil. The ground around him is scorched with redness singing from cracks in the surface.

_Show yourself!_

“I am nothingness.” A single speaker. Soft, so soft. His mouth fills with shredded cotton and he chokes. “I am the darkness, the grand absence of all. I speak only through the will of your own mind, so I am you as well as nothingness. If you must call me anything, call me The Whisper.” His hands shake. When did he stand? His feet sink in the ashes. They swallow his legs to his knees and his heart thrums. “I am your emptiness. I am the spinning. I am the worthlessness. I am all the things you believe you are.”

_Stop._

Wailing winds, distant but clear. Cotton becomes needles in his throat. He claws at them until blood flows over his fingers.

_Please, stop._

“You did this.” His eyes brim with tears and they burn like flame down his cheeks. “I have nothing to stop.”

_I can’t breathe._

“Of course you can’t.” Gurgling bubbling from chapped lips. Scorch and fire and blood, he is only this, and there is no end he can feel. “Your ribs are broken with the rest of you, speared into your lungs. They fill with blood.”

_Then let me die! No one is there to save me! They all had parties and weddings and meetings to attend! Scheming, planning out more of my life!_

“There is someone.” Warmth, too warm in his heart. The wind is louder. His fingers touch frost and he screams into the abyss before him.

_No! Let me die!_

“What?” a softer voice, barely audible above the howling. “I can’t just let you die!” His hands grip the snow and brittle grass beneath it. His eyes open to the real world now, a woman with glowing hands kneels over him.

“Who are you?” He asks, voice shaking in pain and anguish. He aches, in his body and mind, but he is alive. He is healed.

“You’re a lord, aren’t you?” She asks, evading the question. “What’re you doing, hopping off balconies? That’s not good for you.”

“I wanted to die.” He says, honestly. “And it is because I am a lord. I choose nothing for myself. Even this, it seems, is beyond my control.”

“You are sad?” She asks. “You’re sad that you’re alive?”

“I’m empty.” He says. “I saw into my own heart in dying, and I saw nothing.”

“What’d you mean when you said you choose nothing for yourself? Everyone chooses something, no matter how small.” She says.

“I’m to be a Templar. I’m to serve a god I don’t believe in, support a cause I find disgusting.” Sickness churns him.

“You find the Templars disgusting?” She seems shocked, relieved. “They’re more horrible than you’d ever know. You’re no mage, you don’t know how they treat us all. Even us who only know healing. I can’t do fire, or ice, or blood. Not just don’t, can’t.”

“How did you get here?” He asks.

“I ran. I jumped out a window and broke my legs. I almost didn’t get them healed before the knights got to me. Then I ran. They shot arrows. They threw knives. They shouted. I just kept running. I guess I understand why you jumped, then. It’s the same I did. I’d rather be dead than back in the tower. It’s not safe, it’s just a prison they tell you is safe so you don’t run.” She rambles.

He sees her for the first time, really. Her cheeks are hollowed with starving, her eyes sunken in, darkness under them. Her lips are chapped. Her fingers and bare feet are black from the cold. “Maker’s breath…”

“Even magic only goes so far. Can’t eat it, can’t warm if you can’t do fire. Can’t do fire. I can only do keeping alive. I don’t remember what the ground feels like.” He stands. His legs feel broken.

“Come inside, please.” He says. “Let me help you.”

“Can’t help. Chantry family, you said. They might not be home now, but they will be. They’ll kill me, or put me back in. Can’t go back, can’t go back. Can’t, can’t, can’t. Won’t. You’d get in trouble too. I’ll live out here. Best I don’t get used to any comforts, right? Won’t have them again, maybe ever.” She laughs, cold as the air around them. Night is falling. “Don’t worry, Spring’ll be here, someday. Soon, I hope. Dalish will wander around, maybe take me, maybe kill me. Either’s better than where I was before.”

“Are the towers really that bad?” He asks. It is not a smart question, and he knows the answer already.

“So bad. Worst thing, some of them. Ferelden wasn’t that bad, I think. I was there once. Made me leave. Didn’t like me being there. Don’t know why. I liked them there. They were okay. They were mean, but they weren’t cruel. There’s a difference. Most don’t know, but there is. Mean makes you cry at night, but you eat breakfast in the morning a little upset and you don’t really care. Cruel makes you jump out of windows and break your legs, let frostbite get you, makes you not worry about Darkspawn getting you.” She coughs, dry quaking in her lungs. “I’ve got dust in me, or snow. Same thing, sometimes. I’m so bad, even demons don’t want me anymore. The rage ones wanted me before, at the tower. Wanted me to kill things, said they’d get me out. I showed them, didn’t need them to get out. Just needed an open window. I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine. Everything is going to be okay for me. Maybe for you too.” Before the last sentence, he wondered if she had forgotten him entirely.

“I’m so sorry.” He says. “For everything that’s happened to you.”

“You didn’t do any of it, but thank you.” She turns towards the entrance to the courtyard. “They’re coming back! Can’t be here, can’t. I’m not going back.”

He tries to stop her, say he’ll help her, say he’ll hide her, but he can’t. Sense gets the best of him and he goes back inside. He doesn’t want to explain why he was out in the snow.


	2. Journal Of A Non-Believer

There's been more spinning since I got the mark. Not worse, just more. It's actually not as unpleasant anymore. Less like whispering, more like singing. The world is on fire less, but now there are rifts. Apparently, those are real things that other people see as well. Everyone is talking about them, at least.

 

Do you think Solas is aware that my mind doesn't work normally? That, on occasion, the people around me melt or catch flame. That sometimes faces swirl into unrecognizable soup. He's very observant. He has to have seen it in my eyes, the sudden terror. I don't get scared like I used to, but it's still alarming. Mostly because, what if it's real this time. I can never tell. It seems real every time, and then later or the next day, they're fine.

 

Dreams are terrible things. All the fruitless wandering. Those aren't even the worst ones. Those are the good ones, in fact. The bad ones, they're...difficult to describe. So much screaming. Red everywhere, but not blood, not always. Sometimes it's the red lyrium. Either way, it's always everywhere.

 

They all want me to believe, so badly. I can't. I know that the Chantry is a beacon of hope for many, but it has only ever brought despair into my life. My parents always wanted me to serve the Maker, and I can't stomach the idea that I'm serving him now, so I can't say that I am. I'm serving all the people of Thedas. That's less sickening than serving some all powerful being who can't seem to get off his arse long enough to help his children with anything at all. What a divine irony it would be if I was really chosen by the Maker. He could've searched all of Thedas, through the Avaar, Tevinter traditionalists, the Dalish, and not found a soul who thought less of him. Perhaps that's not a fair assumption, but if there is a soul such as this, it would be a close draw between them and myself. 

 

I haven't heard from Belle since the rebellion began. She was never fragile, so I can't worry too much, but still. She is the youngest. She's still a child, really. Aside from Laurel and Emma, all my other siblings are Templars. Emma's a Sister of the Chantry. Who knows where Laurel is. Why did I never have the courage to follow his footsteps? He left when he was barely eighteen and he's never come back. I remember my parents would occasionally get letters from him saying that he was still alive. He was always very interested in Dalish gods, though that may have led him to his doom. Dalish aren't savage, as many believe, but they are xenophobic. It's a rational fear, after all they've been through, are still going through.

 

Cassandra's face doesn't blend and melt in the same way as most others do. It, how can I describe, swivels? No, that isn't right. It moves side to side, staying on a central line, but still in motion. It's not like a snake, though. More like a flag of some sort. A banner, perhaps. Fitting for her, honestly. She's very stabilized. Sometimes I can't see Leliana at all.

 

I wish there was someone I could talk to about the things I see. Perhaps Solas would understand. The things I've accepted as part of my life would be terrifying to others.

 

I have to stay calm. I have to always, always stay calm. I remember what happens when I'm riled up. The spinning is me and within me, it changes to my emotions.

 

It's raining and blue flowers are sprouting from Leliana's ears and mouth. They're beautiful. I'm thankful that they have no thorns.

 

I'm sure that Josephine doesn't actually turn things to gold when she touches them. Not that directly, anyway.

 

I know Cullen doesn't hate mages, and that he's seen the corruption among templars, so why does he want to ally with the templars and not the mages. There can be more templars. If all the mages are wiped out, which is what the templars want, then there may never be more. The Order isn't worth salvaging. "Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him" doesn't mean that mages should be slaves.

 

In fact, I'd go so far to say that the existence of Templars is breaking the rule. Templars are ruled by lyrium when they start using it, not the Chantry. This has been made even more apparent recently, considering they abandoned the Chantry completely, but haven't abandoned their precious lyrium. Lyrium is the essence of magic. Templars are serving magic now, how ironic.

 

Constance, thank goodness, was with Cullen when this all started. So, he's with the Inquisition. As for the rest of my siblings, I fear what's become of them.

 

I've been thinking a lot lately, about how my family has reacted to mages. How ridiculous they are about anything magical. Belle came to mother when she was ten, at dawn. Her night dress was singed on the bottom and her hands were burned. She was sobbing and terrified, didn't know what was happening. Our mother's first reaction was to draw a weapon. Not because she thought there'd been an attack, but because part of her intended to kill her daughter. She then said, "There's always one, in every generation. Such is the plight of this family." What a horrible outlook to have, that you'd sooner kill your own child than soothe their crying.


	3. Family Comes First

"Father!" Connor exclaims, ever the excited child inside, when he sees the familiar figure approach. "You didn't write to say you were coming to visit."

"No, and I'm afraid this isn't going to be pleasant." He eyes their surroundings warily, as if he doesn't trust the cityscape. "You must return home immediately."

"Can...can you even do that?" The redhead asks. "Wouldn't it be abandoning my duty to the Chantry?"

"The Maker will understand if you place your family above your career." He replies. "In fact, I think He would encourage such behavior."

"Is something wrong?"

"Your brother..." He sighs, unable to quite describe the situation without sending Connor into a frenzy of worry. "He isn't coping well with the expectations placed on him. Your mother and I cannot be there to watch him constantly."

"Max?" Connor's face twists in worry. "Oh dear, I wondered why he'd stopped writing."

"He took a spill off the fifth floor balcony." He says, and Connor gasps. "He's alright, says an elven Mage healed him-"

"An elf!?" Connor's eyes widen. "Like-a Dalish elf? That's-"

"Calm yourself, child." He places a hand on his son's shoulder. "Max will be alright, but in light of this, your mother and I have decided not to send him to be a Templar. It is not his calling."

"He would make a good Templar, I don't understand." Connor shakes his head. "He is loyal and devoted to protecting others."

"He is at odds with the Maker, I believe. I don't know his reasons, but I do know his feelings. I would rather have him safe at home than miserable in the Chantry."

"I will pack my things at once."


	4. Be Safe

Max knows that some become tranquil willingly. He cannot really fathom why, but he accepts it. Some people think different things. It isn't as if they... _care_. Not once it is done. "Sit, please." He says softly, gesturing to a stool in the corner of the room. One of the newest tranquil, a young girl. Younger than he thinks the Chantry must allow, but he does not know. She moves immediately to obey. He takes a deep breath as she looks up at him with that same serene, empty gaze they all have.

  
"What is that?" She asks when he brings over a mortar from a nearby table.

  
"A salve, for the brand." He says. "It is blistered. I cannot believe-with all the Mages here, you would think someone would be allowed to heal this..."

  
She sits still and silent after his answer, completely complacent. There is the constant sinking feeling in his stomach that she would do so no matter _what_ he did to her, and he knows other Templars take advantage. He has not caught them in the act yet, and perhaps they intend to keep it that way. Trevelyans are well known. Max could slay a few of his fellows and insist they attacked first, he _knows_ he would get away with it, they know it as well.

  
"Does it hurt?" He asks.

  
"I am fine."

  
"That was not what I asked. They cut your ties with the fade, but your body still exists." He says. "Never mind that, if it does get treated, it will fester. That is not good for anyone."

  
"I would die, if it did." She says surely. "It was not planned for me to receive treatment."

  
"No...it was not..." He sighs, spreading the salve onto the burn on her forehead.

  
"Perhaps it was intended for me to die."

  
" _Worse_ , I fear." He says. "They simply do not care either way."

  
"Max." The blond looks up at his older brother's voice. "What-what are you doing?"

  
"Well, what does it look like?" He asks.

  
"Wasting time?" The redhead asks. "Is that necessary?"

  
"Our superiors would say no, but it could have become infected." Max says. "And _that_ would be unnecessary."

  
"Thank you, serah." The tranquil says when Max finishes treating her.

  
"Come and see me if you have a fever, _please_." He says, knowing it is likely a useless request. She leaves the brothers alone in the room, returning to whatever task someone set her before Max pulled her away.

  
"Do they feel pain?" Connor asks.

  
"I do not think they know." Max answers. "Why does this torture carry on?"

  
"She submitted to it _willingly_ , brother." the redhead reminds him. "She asked for it, _specifically_."

  
"Maybe it is better to be tranquil than to face being a Mage here."

  
" _Quiet_." Connor hisses. "Our superiors already do not like you. Do not give them cause."

  
"Cause to what? To _kill_ me?" Max scoffs. "The Chantry cannot afford to slight our family. The Trevelyans are a spiteful bunch. Relatives who have never heard of me would denounce it."

  
"Where are you going?" Connor asks when Max brushes past him into the hall.

  
"I..." He pauses. Protective though his brother is, he is _still_ loyal to the Chantry, to the _Templars_... "Have heard of apostates in Lowtown... I wish to investigate the rumors."

  
"Without Cullen's approval?"

  
" _Fuck_ Cullen." He snaps defensively. "Who knows if the rumors are true? Some people will cry 'mage' whenever anything happens. I will not have Knight-Commander Meredith ordering us to rip the city in half over _rumors_."

  
"I do not approve, but _as always_ , your secret is safe with me." Connor says.

  


\---

  


Rumors, _Maker_ , the rumors. They are exactly why he should _not_ be going where he is, down that dust covered elevator into the poorest part of the city. But. If there is a rebellion beginning here, he knows what side he is on. His loyalties have _never_ lain with the Chantry. It is possible he has made a mistake, from the looks he gets from the locals. Scowls, hissing whispers...starting to make his mind and vision a bit foggy.

  
Whatever his mistake, it is made now. He follows them doggedly as they scurry off, no doubt to tell who he is looking for, to warn the Mage of the threat they-he admits, justifiably-perceive. The rumors he has heard is relatively safe. Not many of the Templars go into Lowtown just to listen to people. Max does.

  
_Towards the lit lantern, and yes. Rumors to truth._

  
The residents have already warned him, standing stock straight with his hand white-knuckle gripping his staff. "Healer." Max says in greeting.

  
"This is a place of sanctum." The man grits out. "You would threaten it?"

  
"No." Max says, but not a single bit of the defensiveness eases. "On the contrary, I want to help."

  
"I won't just take your word for truth." He says.

  
"I need you to come to the Gallows." Max continues. The healer looks at Max like he has absolutely lost his mind. "There are places there not commonly crowded with people, and there is a tranquil girl whose brand is festering. The salves I can make are not enough. She does not know, but it is getting worse and if she does not get real help, she _will_ die."

  
The healer falters at this, hold on his staff easing, but he is definitely still a danger to Max. "You are aware this sounds like a trap?"

  
"I know." Max nods. "You need not come alone. In fact, I insist that you bring someone. _Anyone_ , anyone at all. _Please_. She needs help. There is no sense in her dying."

  
"There is no one in the Circle for you to ask?"

  
"I...am not allowed to talk to the Mages anymore..." He admits. "Tomorrow at noon, here." He hands the healer a drawn map. "I need to go, _now_ , before someone looks for me. Be careful."

  


\---

  


"You...did not bring someone with you." Max says when the healer meets him in the place he mapped for him.

  
The healer glances at him, then the sleeping girl in his arms. "What did you give her?"

  
"A simple sleeping draught. She cannot know you, she does not know better than to tell the truth." Max says. He shifts the girl in his arms to let the healer see the brand on her head. It is far worse than before. "Whoever did it this time did not clean the dead flesh from it. I _know_ , I have seen it before, and I have seen them _die_ because of it. _Senseless_. I will not stand for it anymore."

  
The healer hovers his hand above her head, feeling the fever in her even from a distance, and magic flows from his fingertips. "What happens to them in dreams..."

  
"Same as what happens to dwarves, I imagine. Nothing." Max says. When the brand looks normal and healed-Max is sure someone will notice, but assume it was a healer from the Circle-he sighs. "I wonder if it would be kinder to let her die... They do not know when they are being abused, when they are hurt, when they are sick...she would have calmly died from a horrible infection without a single complaint..."

  
"It needs to stop." the healer says.

  
"I agree." Max says. "Be safe." He calls quietly as the other leaves.

  
"You too."


	5. Deviance

Gealis really, really needs to be paying attention to this, this lord whoever. The inquisition needs passage through his lands and Gealis is supposed to be securing that, but...it is difficult to focus when Max is around. Not just because the man is handsome and charming, but because he is _devious_.

The blond is leaned close to Allan, who is propped against the wall next to him, and Gealis can't help but try to figure out what Max is saying to make the other turn so pink. He chided himself internally and sits up straighter, pointedly _not_ looking at the other two.

But who can blame him if he steals a glance or two? They are _very _distracting and Max is not subtle _at all_.__

__Max catches Gealis staring and grins, winking at him. "You know..." He says, turning his attention back to Allan. "The inquisitor is fond of this." He brushes his knuckles along the top of the brunet's ear and against the softly graying hair at his temples. "Says it makes you look dignified."_ _

__Allan's face flushed even more and he continues looking straight ahead and pretending he is unaffected. "Can you never be serious?" He asks. He makes the mistake of glancing at the blond and sees the mischief in his bright blue eyes._ _

__"I _am_ being serious." Max says, then leans closer to press a kiss to Allan's jaw, enjoying the feel of rough stubble on his lips. Allan's breathing hitches and he lets out a sigh through his nose. Max turns his eyes to Gealis again and is pleased to see the pointed ears turning pink._ _

__Max glances around to make sure all attention is on the inquisitor and the lord before continuing soft kisses at Allan's neck, nipping at the skin until the brunet's breaths are shallow pants. "If you don't stop, Trevelyan, you'll wind up under me in a closet."_ _

__The blond hums and bites harder before checking on Gealis again. Allan, he knows from past experience, has perfectly readable lips. This fact doesn't fail him now as it is clear the inquisitor can not focus on anything _except for them_ , even if he is pretending he can._ _

__"Oh no." Max whispers, admiring the red marks his teeth have left on Allan's neck, "Whatever would I do then?"_ _

__"I really shouldn't give you any ideas." Allan sighs._ _

__Max bites his lip and smiles as Gealis glances over at them again. "Did you have something in mind?"_ _

__"Nothing that you can do here." Allan swallows thickly when Max returns attention to his neck, caring less and less for their setting and sucking bruises on the skin._ _

__"You'd be surprised."_ _


	6. Find Peace

"I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing anymore." Max says with a heavy sigh. "I thought I had everything figured out, but now... It's different. It's been different since Tevinter."

"The realization that it won't work out with someone is never easy." Keagan says. "He is wrong. Perhaps, in time, he will come to see that."

Max shakes his head. "It's more than that. It's... It's the game, not just personal issues." He says. "I enjoyed being a spy, having all that information at my fingertips, breaking down powerful people with whispers. Now I don't...and I'm not sure what happened."

"You played until it put you on the opposite side of someone you love. That is the game." Keagan sighs. "I always knew you'd be this way. You were such a melancholy child in harsh weather. I thought you might find solace in the Chantry, but..."

"I didn't." Max says.

"No, and I should've seen that too. Some find peace in following the Order, in letting others decide what is good and bad. You cannot." Keagan chuckes. "Your mother wanted to send you to Kirkwall with Connor. I told her after Belle showed signs that you wouldn't do well there. Jumping between them and shouting 'don't hurt her'. Kirkwall doesn't protect mages."

"But with what happened there. If I had pushed through my training. If I had gone. If I had been there-"

"Then you would likely be dead." Keagan says sternly. "You cannot blame yourself for things out of your control."

"I should've been there." Max frowns. "I could've helped."

"You still can." Keagan says. "The city needs someone to help now more than ever. What happened there was incredibly destructive, and the city cannot recover alone. You always sympathized with who is responsible, but you know that was a mistake. If you blame yourself for it, work to repair the damage done. Maybe that will bring you peace."

"I...perhaps." Max sighs. "Either way, I can't play the game anymore. It's...too much. I'm losing myself."

"I know." Keagan's voice is solemn. "You are tender hearted. It is why I sent Laurel to Orlais and not you. Both of you have the skill for the game, but you lack the stamina for it."

"What do you mean?"

"Laurel is a cynic. Every bad thing that happens around him rolls right off. He doesn't feel the sting of heartache. You, however, you are led by your heart. You believe in things. Perhaps not the Maker or the Chantry, but in love and the inherent beauty of the world. Leave the game before you blind your spirit with sorrow."


	7. Cynic

Laurel sprawls on a very plush and silky sofa with another goblet full of wine (he has lost count of them), listening to an older noblewoman in an obnoxiously floofy dress talk about the salon she's planning. He cuts his eyes to a couple courting in the corner and grimaces. He mutters a noise of disgust and takes a drink.

The noblewoman looks the direction he did and smiles. "Do you not approve? I think they are cute together."

"Love isn't real." Laurel says plainly. "It's fake and disgusting."

"Oh my." She puts her hand over her heart. "How did someone so young become such a cynic?"

"Well," he takes a long drink. "When you live in _my_ family. My parents hate each other and my father has fucked everyone-" he hiccups, "everyone south of the imperium. So, love has become sort of a fantasy. Pretty in stories, but unrealistic."

"I am sorry you feel that way. Love can be wonderful."

"Oh, I'm sure it can, while it lasts." He says and shrugs, "But that's the thing, it doesn't. It ends before death or one of you dies before the other and it ends that way. Either way, it ends. I just don't see the point of putting yourself through that."

"The fragility and uncertainty are meant to make it more beautiful." She insists.

"Well, they don't." He empties his goblet and stands to find more. "And neither does the fact that most of the world uses marriage as a move in a game. Love is too easy to ruin to bother with."


	8. Deep Discussions

"So, being a seer, you must see the worst parts of the world." Laurel says, taking a swig of the watered down ale they were given 'on the house for wardens' even though neither of them actually _are_ grey wardens. "How can you still be happy?"

"What do you mean?" Fey asks. His blue eyes are full of a sparkle that Laurel can't understand.

"It must be terrible to see destruction all the time." Laurel continues. "So much death and betrayal... Does it ever get overwhelming? Like, to the point that you don't see a point in the world anymore?"

"It can get overwhelming, yes, but the latter is more complicated. There really is no point to the world, it just _is_." Fey says. "Existence carries on without us all. If Ferelden fell to the blight, Orlais would seize power. If they failed, eventually the darkspawn might take over, but it is unlikely."

"How so?"

"Blight brought Thedas to the brink of annihilation once before, but we are _still_ here. Sitting at the edge of an entrance into the Deep Roads, even. The home they took for themselves, claimed through force and blood. We fleshy and fragile mortals have the gall to live on their doorstep." Fey says. "Drinking ale, singing, dancing, carrying on as if this very place we are was not once nearly dead. We heal and move on. The only true death is in giving up."

"Optimistic of you, to think the darkspawn will never win."

"If you think they will, then why continue fighting?" Fey asks. "If you truly have no hope for the world, why are you here?"

"I...don't know." Laurel shakes his head.

"You are not hopeless, you are unsatisfied." Fey says. "Do not mistake the two. The latter can be solved, and all that is needed is to follow where your heart leads."

"And if you can see no path in sight? What then?"

Fey snorts and takes another sip of his ale. "It's a metaphor, there is no _real_ path." His eyes soften. "Do what you feel is right, and you will find where you are meant to be."

"What if I am not meant to be anywhere?" Laurel mumbles, sinking low in his seat.

"Silly child, we all have a place." Fey shakes his head, laughing. "Speaking from experience, it is better not to know what that place is until you find it. Knowledge has a tendency to lead you astray, for mortals fear the end of the journey more than the path we take."

"They do say that ignorance is bliss."

"In this, yes, I think so." He becomes more somber, a far away look in his eyes. "I am struggling with this now."

"So even seeing a defined path does not help you feeling lost?" Laurel asks.

"There is a pull to something far away for me. I can feel the tugging in my mind, but...the journey there is harsh, and it is all I am able to see for now. But for all the pain I can see, I fear the ends. They terrorize my dreams. There are so many ways it could go wrong." He shakes his head solemnly. "If I am even a moment too late...my power could fall into bloody hands."

"Too late for what?"

"Death." Fey sighs.

"You can see your death but you won't avoid it? Why?"

"Because it would be more dangerous for me to live." He says. "I'm-I'm sure of it. No good can come of what I see now. Just because I cannot see the end does not mean I cannot predict it."

"Death does not scare you?" Laurel asks.

"Of course it does!" Fey shouts, then takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Why do you think I am here and not at home? My end is fast approaching and I am _afraid_. And my selfish fears endanger everyone. This trip to the south could ruin my chance..."

"So, you'll die or something worse will happen when you return home..."

"Yes."

"Have you thought about just not going back?"

Fey huffs a laugh. "No matter where we go in life or how far we run, our destiny follows. You can only borrow time, never escape. _He_ will learn this as well."

"He?"

"It is too soon to tell you, but I am sure you will realize who I mean when the time comes."

"So what _can_ you tell me?" Laurel asks.

"It's going to rain tomorrow in Val Royeaux." Fey says with a smile.


	9. Letters To And From Jezabelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no one else's angsty teen letters have ever been this angsty, but that's just how it goes in circles of magi

To whom it may concern,

I am not sure what I intend to accomplish by floating these letters into the wind, into the Divine’s household. I doubt I am worthy to write to her coal boy, and I believe for sure that whoever receives this first, fledgling letter will agree. You see, dear recipient, I am a mage of the Faraday Circle. It is a small one, but I imagine you have heard of it. The rich and noble of Thedas send their castaways here, and I call them my friends and students. I am one of them, one of the skeletons in the closet of a wealthy house. Magic runs thin in our blood, and I am but one of seven children, the only mage. Dear receiver of these words, I know you did not ask for the story of my life. I am just so dreadfully lonely. I am ghosted away in a tower as all the princesses in folk tales, but there is no dragon to protect me and no hope of a prince to release me. Indeed, the world believes I am undeserving of freedom and they may be right, but who ever said that I could not write to the world? Surely my words are no danger on paper, if they are even a danger from my lips. To whomever plucks this letter from the bin I am sure it will arrive into, if you have read this far, thank you.

With love and well wishes, Jezabelle Trevelyan

 

Dear Jezabelle,

I am sorry to inform you that you were correct in your assumption that your letter would find itself in the trash. I went to bed last night reading your letter and thinking of how fate played its hand. Most of the servants here cannot read, but I grew up in an unusual circumstance. I am sure that by reading this, you could guess I am a bastard of some nobleman. As fate would have it, it was I who stumbled onto your letter. It could have been the coal boy, indeed, as he sometimes empties the trash as well. Jezabelle, you are not unworthy of speaking to us. Surely, the Maker would not mind the harmless exchange of letters between the abandoned children of wealthy men?

You were gracious enough to tell me some of your story, and so I shall tell you some of mine. My father is a duke in Orlais, and he so wanted a son. His wife gave him daughters, and then his mistress gave him another, me. A chill took his other children when I was still in my cradle, and so he became more devoted to me for a time. He was my father long enough for me to learn to read and write, but I have not had a letter from him in a long time. I still wonder if he finally got the son. So, you see, we are both lonely girls ghosted away somewhere. You are bound by your magic, and I by the threat of poverty, both by a misfortune of blood.

With love, Claretta de Avon

 

Dearest Claretta,

Though it saddens me to know that I was correct about the initial recipient of my letter—a trash bin, I am filled with joy that you found it! Your tale is as sorrowful as mine, if not more so. Poverty can be such a brutal cage compared to the gilded, golden bars that surround me. We are both surely kept from our full potential by circumstances that were completely out of our hands. My dearest Claretta, I would ask that you please pass my contact on to any you know to be lonely. I can do so little from here, but if my words can bring comfort to anyone, I would give the world and all the power in my veins to see their pain eased.

With love and well wishes, Jezabelle Trevelyan

 

To Jezabelle,

Under the instrucsion of our frend Claretta, I am riting this leter to you. My educasion was not as good as hers, I am sory if I do not spel things rite. It was me that got your leter out of the bin. I saw one of the min in armer put it out. I see them do that ofen. Claretta says I am wel spoken for somone who can not rite, but I do not know if that is tru. She red your leter to me and it made me hapy that I got your leter out of the bin. I hope you rite bac.

From Hayes

 

To our dearest Jezabelle,

Your letter was passed on to me after the coal boy, and I find your commitment to the lonely people of this place to be admirable. In my life, I see and read so few things that warm my heart. In fact, I have had my heart made cold many times now. There are others here who would see your worth, more than you think, and a few of them are important. I cannot name them, but you must know that they are here.

With love, O.S.S.

 

Dearest Hayes,

You write very well. While you do misspell some words, that matters little in the grand scheme of it all. Spelling can be learned by anyone, but eloquence is hard won. I am so gladdened that you found my letter, for I truly thought that I was writing to the wind. I hope that we all can find comfort all our words.

With love and well wishes, Jezabelle Trevelyan

 

Dearest O

I am pleased that your heart found warmth within my letters. You have given me so much hope for our world, that there are others who believe I am not a wolf to be skinned is a true relief. I give you all my love and hope that your heart is chilled no longer.

With love and well wishes, Jezabelle Trevelyan

 

To Jezabelle,

Thank you very much for your kind words about my riting. I hope to becom a beter riter. Grate storys liv in my hed and one day I want to get them out. One day I want to be a riter and not just a coal boy, but I am glad that I am one now, to find your leter.

From Hayes

 

To our dearest Jezabelle,

For me to once be a purveyor of hope is unusual, and I cherish it. I am sure my heart will wind up cold again one day, but for now I hold this warmth close. Your position is not as helpless as it seems, and I have thought of another way you could help me. The others and myself know that cruelty takes place in circles of magi, but we are so far unable to prove this. Most mages are afraid to speak up, or get their story out if they wanted to. If you could bring their stories to us, through your voice as a noblewoman, it could help. Even in a cast out mage, noble blood holds weight. Your words are more likely to believed than any common mage. You would also be able to communicate more easily with them. Please, I ask that you divest yourself of this letter after you read it. Burn it, let no one else see what I have written, for I do this without order and I know you must be risk for reading it. When you return correspondence, if you accept: make them fiction, make them idle gossip, use code, and never mention names. I can find out who you mean later.

With love, O.S.S.

 

Dearest Hayes,

You will be a fantastic writer one day. I look forward to reading your tales when they are published, as books are one of my only comforts here. Please, when you do write, craft an adventure for me. I know it is no small thing to ask, but it would mean the world to me to know that I left a mark on the world, even in the tiniest of ways.

With love and well wishes, Jezabelle Trevelyan

 

Dearest O.

I have a new task that I understand fully. The fire in my chamber is well fed and burning warmly tonight. My dear Hayes’ passion for writing has sparked something in me as well, and I wish to share a tale with you. It is about a very sad princess in a spire. This princess, named Aby by her mother, lived her life happily for many years, but one day a king from another land ordered her captured. He said that she was too beautiful to live in the world, and he locked her away. His subjects trusted his judgement and they readily agreed that she was far too beautiful. Their eyes were truly spared from the awe of it now, and they could go back to their normal lives. Few thought about the princess, but one of the king’s best knights could not get her off of his mind. He thought of her night and day, day and night. One day, when the king was away and the rest of the knights were fast asleep, he visited her tower. She had met this knight during her capture, and she held no hope that he had come to rescue her. Her great beauty did not sway him from cruelty, and he visited her many times after that night. When her belly began to swell, the king turned his eyes away and hoped that the babe would perish naturally. It did not, and eventually a physician had to be called. This physician, named Ken, had committed a grave crime in the kingdom, so grave that the king’s subjects were loathe to speak of it. In exchange for his silence in this matter, he would be freed from the charges against him. Ken agreed and delivered Aby’s baby in secret. The infant was taken in the middle of the night, along with Ken, and they were both moved to another land. To this day, no one knows where the babe was taken to, but one day, he may inherit his mother’s dangerous beauty, and she may find him again. I hope you find this story interesting.

With love and well wishes, Jezabelle Trevelyan

 

To our dearest Jezabelle,

Your story is stomach turning, but I do find it very interesting. I feel such sorrow for this princess Aby. Your writing is so beautiful, and I hope to be honored with more to read very soon. It gladdens my heart that your fire is burning so nicely. I have heard that the winters there can get so very cold.

With love, O.S.S.

 

Dearest O.

The winters can grow very cold, but the summers here are lovely. I thank you for your kind words about my writing. I have another story for you, inspired by a place my mother loves very much and always wanted to visit with me. Unfortunately, we never got the chance to visit it together. Still, I think she hopes that I may see that chain o’ mountains someday.

There once was a poor woman who had several poor daughters, each graced with loveliness. One was far more beautiful than the rest, but she had a personality like a rabid dog. Seeking to move their family’s standing up, the poor woman presented her prettiest daughter to the king after forcing her to take a draught that gave her horrible cottonmouth. The daughter could not speak, as her tongue was thick, and so the king took her as a wife on the spot. Unfortunately, the truth came out later. The new queen was brash and swore like a sailor, which displeased the king greatly. He went to his queen’s mother in desperation, and begged for the way she had made the brute of a girl silent on the day they met. The mother passed on to him the draught she had used to keep her daughter silent. From then on, the king forced the draught into his queen’s mouth daily. Eventually, she grew tired of fighting, and tired of having her tongue so thick that she could not speak, so she remained silent by choice. She vowed to do anything to please the king, if only to keep her voice. The king allowed this for a while, but eventually he grew tired of her weeping when she thought he could not hear. He sought a powerful herbalist to make a potion that would silence her forever, so that he could finally have the quiet, obedient queen he had always wanted. He found his herbalist, and this herbalist crafted the potion for him. With his queen silenced for good, the king was happy for a time. Soon, though, he grew weary of her manner, especially in bed. Before, she had been wild and uncooperative, and he had enjoyed overpowering her, as it made him feel powerful to conquer such a fantastic beast as her. Now, she lay still when he took her to bed. No matter what he did, or how he hurt her, she would not scream, she would only stare at him with bleak, hopeless eyes. Tired of her, he plunged a knife into her chest one evening. You may have thought that he would weep when she did not even fight, but he sighed in relief, glad to finally be rid of her. I hope you find this story interesting, my dearest friend.

With love and well wishes, Jezabelle Trevelyan


End file.
